"I will honour them the best way I can," I said at length.
"Then you will write them next steamer. Is it not so, Daisy?"
"That would make it very difficult for me to honour them," I said; "to honour them in action, I mean."
"Why so? There is no way so short as a straight way."
"No, ma'am. But -I cannot undo what is done, Miss Cardigan."
"What our cheeks say your heart has done. No, child." And again I heard the unwonted sigh from Miss Cardigan's lips.
"Not my heart only," I went on, plucking up courage. "I have spoken - I have let him speak. I cannot undo it - I cannot undo it."
"Well?" said Miss Cardigan, looking anxious.
"It was done before I thought of mamma and papa. It was all done - it is done; and I cannot undo it now, even for them."
"My dear, you would not marry without your parents' consent?"
"No, Miss Cardigan. They may forbid _that_."
"What then? What harm would be done by your letting them know at once how the case stands. They would care for your happiness, Daisy."
Not with a Northerner, a farmer's son, and an officer in the Northern army. I knew how it would be; but I could not tell Miss Cardigan.
"What is it you cannot undo, little Daisy?" she said softly, I suppose seeing me look troubled. And she stretched out a kind hand and took hold of mine. It was very hard to bear. All this was a sort of dragging things into light and putting things in black and white; more tangible and more hard to deal with for ever after.
"What is it you cannot undo? Since you confess, that if they desired, you would undo the whole."
"Not my faith, nor my affection," - I said, slowly. "Some things they may forbid, and I obey; but _these_ things are passed beyond their power, and beyond mine. I will be true. I cannot help it now, if I would."
"But, Daisy -" said Miss Cardigan, and she was evidently perplexed now herself. - "Since you are ready to obey them in the utmost and give up Thorold if they say so, what is there, my dear, which your father and mother could command _now_ in which you are not ready to obey them?"
"The time has not come, Miss Cardigan," I said. "It may be - you know it may be - long, before they need know anything about it; before, I mean, anything could be done. I am going abroad - Christian will be busy here - and they might tell me not to think of him and not to write to him; and - I can't live so. It is fair to give him and myself the chance. It is fair that they should know him and see him before they hear what he wants of them; or at least before they answer it."